


but you, you'll always find another place to go

by spectralPigeon



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types
Genre: (Kind of.), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Morality, M/M, Mystery, Stalking, Strangers to Lovers, Trans Character, more TBA - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 03:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectralPigeon/pseuds/spectralPigeon
Summary: Common sense is just y’know... Common sense.Look both ways before crossing the street. Sleeping eight hours a night is good for you. If you don’t want to end up having to lie in your own coffin, don’t build it in the first place.Unfortunately, Sock left his common sense back at his parents’ house, and he definitelycan notswing back around to grab it. Now Mephistopheles--the only person willing to take Sock in--is asking him to stalk some high school student with a passion for bad haircuts and apathetic facial expressions, and Sock doesn’t know what to make of him. Mix in a couple of mangled deer carcasses that keep popping up in the woods out behind his boss’s house, and it looks like Sock’s gotten himself into a pretty sticky situation.He’s calling the funeral home first thing tomorrow.He wants his coffin with lined with neon purple satin.





	but you, you'll always find another place to go

 

There’s a fine line between expressing extreme interest in someone and genuine, honest-to-God stalking them.

Sock wouldn’t peg himself as a stalker or anything, but now that he’s spending his third night in a row going far, far out of his way to keep tabs on Jonathan Combs, he’s not sure he can say he’s just toeing the line. He could probably argue that because it’s all for his job it’s not really _stalking_ stalking, but it sure feels that way.

It’s mid October and Sock didn’t have the time to cram the proper clothes into his duffel when leaving his house last month, so he’s pretty cold and miserable while camped in a tree behind the Combs house. The breeze blows a little too often. Some sort of wild animal is shrieking its head off a couple hundred yards away in the woods. Sock hopes it’s just a squirrel. He can deal with squirrels.

He checks his phone (with its screen settings dimmed as much as possible, duh), and the clock reads “1:32”. He glances back up. Jonathan’s lights are still on. A little squinting confirms that the guy’s on his laptop, just surfing the web, or whatever. Sock shoots Mephistopheles a text.

 

_S: hey its been three hours and the situation hasnt really changed…_

_S: should i keep post until 2 or is it ok to come back to the house now?_

_S: its kind of cold up here if im being honest_

 

Sock knows Mephistopheles, and he knows he has at least a few more minutes of sitting out in the sub-forty weather before he gets a response. So he huddles into himself a little further, and keeps looking for something weird from Jonathan--Sock doesn’t know what that something’s supposed to be, but he still looks.

He’s always had a bit of a “don’t ask about it, just do it” principle when working with Mephistopheles, and this job was no different. He’s tailed people before. He’ll probably do it again. But the part that confuses him about this case is that he _can’t tell what Jonathan did to catch Mephistopheles’ attention._

To be fair, Sock isn’t a great judge in character; he usually guesses his targets are in some kind of debt, because money problems are probably the easiest kind of problem you can get these days. But then Mephistopheles’ll slip out a side comment about a kidnapping or a particularly well-executed con job, and Sock has to throw his theory out the window.

Jonathan’s a lot younger than his usual targets--he should start calling them clients, actually. That’s what Mephistopheles calls them. Jonathan’s a lot younger than his usual _clients_.

The teen doesn’t have that weird, guilty air around him that lot of the others have either; Sock looks at him, and he just sees a tired guy that’s probably pulled a few too many all-nighters--this scout-out is only driving that point home. He looks like he doesn’t shower much either, but Sock can’t judge him on that front. Pot calling kettle black and all that, blah, blah.

Sock flips through his alphabetized mental list of potential crimes for teens, and is in section “H” on “homicide” when his phone buzzes.

 

_M: Still on the Internet, huh?_

_M: Can you see what site he’s on?_

 

Sock frowns, then holds up his battered pair of binoculars. He tries to peer through the shutters of Jonathan’s window with mixed success.

 

_S: i cant see much but i think its netflix?_

 

Another buzz.

 

_M: Hmm._

_M: Are we talking rom-coms, horror, or what?_

_S: uh_

 

He shuffles a little further out onto his branch, twisting at a bit of an unnatural angle to get a better view.

 

_S: looks like a sitcom i guess_

_S: maybe the office?_

 

One more text.

 

_M: Well then._

 

Then nothing.

Sock doesn’t fume about the lack of instructions because Mephistopheles is Mephistopheles, and while he’s technically Sock’s boss, when it comes to professionalism and attitude, he’s got more of a used car salesman vibe.

Sock leans back on his branch. He keeps watching Jonathan watch TV, blinking slowly to keep his eyes from glazing over. He traces the angle of the teen’s shoulders, takes note of his dull grey jacket he’s worn every day for the past week. Coaxes his line of sight up to the collection of piercings wrapped around the shell Jonathan’s ears. And he sure does have a lot of piercings. Whew.

 

_S: is it normal for teenagers to have a lot of piercings? like is that considered cool??_

 

Sock doesn’t wait long for a response.

 

_M: I don’t know, aren’t /you/ the young one?_

 

Hnnnngh.

 

_S: i was homeschooled though_

 

Buzz.

 

_M: Yeesh, full of excuses, aren’t you._

 

Sock can’t even make a good comeback; if he says something with any bite to it, he doesn’t know if Mephistopheles would laugh or fire him. He sits with his fingers hovering on the keyboard of his phone, uncertain of how to reply when--

 

_M: Come on back to the house; we’ll flip through whatever notes you made and see if there’s anything in there worth our time._

 

Considering Sock just spent all night taking them they were apparently worth _his_ time, but still. He’s not going to get touchy about that, nope. He likes staying up late anyways. A little midnight stroll was good for him. A little midnight tree climbing was pretty good, too.

He piles his equipment into his ratty backpack, tugs his hat a little further down on his head, and starts easing his way down the tree. When he’s got his two feet back on the solid ground, a glance over his shoulder shows that Jonathan’s light is off. Maybe he’s finally gone to bed. Great. It leaves a smaller margin for ‘lack of coverage,’ or whatever schmancy term government spies would call it.

Sock shoves his hands into the front pocket of his sweater vest. He double-checks that his knife is in said pocket. Then he walks off into the woods, taking the overgrown path that shortcuts from this neighborhood to Mephistopheles’.

 

* * *

 

Mephistopheles flips through Sock’s journal, and out of fifty entries, only pays attention to one.

“He shaved three times in as many days?”

Sock shrugs, picking off a couple of stray leaves that had stuck to his skirt. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Weird.”

Sock wouldn’t know, but okay.

“Can I go to bed?” he asks.

“Knock yourself out,” Mephistopheles replies, scribbling in his personal journal in favor of looking at Sock. “Literally, if you want.”

Sock offers a weak laugh. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Eh. Could’ve been an interesting, but I don’t blame you.” A pause. “G’night, Sock.”

Sock still doesn’t know how to approach those moments when Mephistopheles says things a normal person would--it just seems too human. But he lets his half-hearted smile go to an appreciative grin.

“You too, Mephistopheles.”

 

* * *

 

On the fourth night in a row of scouting out Jonathan, while Sock’s headed out the door, he catches a glimpse of something he probably wasn’t supposed to see sitting square on the kitchen counter.

There are snapshots of his own fake-smile and combed-back hair with harsh lighting, sheets of cardstock with tiny print and his face again, and a bunch of important-looking documents spread around haphazardly.

Sock reads one of the more legible, bolder lines of text, and gives a thoughtful hum.

When he’s back up in his station, he sends a text.

 

_S: sock morningstar?_

_S: is that what were going with?_

_S: morningstar cant be your actual last name, paired with your first name thats almost too much haha_

 

Mephistopheles gets back to him in a few minutes.

 

_M: Aw, you ruined my surprise for next week._

_M: But nah, that isn’t my last name--while you’re around though, it will be._

_M: Just wanted to jazz things up with some alliteration._

_M: The ‘M’ schtick, y’know? Mephistopheles. Morningstar._

_M: It’s catchy._

 

Sock snorts.

 

_S: lets just hope we dont bump into any devout christians any time soon_

 

And the response he gets to that is kind of… strange.

 

_M: Hah! In a town like this, that’s never going to be an issue._

 

‘ _Well then,_ ’ Sock thinks. ‘ _Sure_.’

He puts down the phone, picks up his binoculars, and tunes in just in time to watch Jonathan bite into a turkey sandwich with just a _little_ too much gusto. It makes him a bit uncomfortable. He writes about it in his notebook.

 

* * *

 

Another week passes.

After an incident involving sleep-deprived Sock putting a dent in the wall of the bathroom while trying to wiggle on a pair of skinny jeans and subsequently failing in the most humiliating way possible, Mephistopheles agreed to keep Sock’s late nights to a minimum; Sock compensates by stalking Jonathan more during the day time.

During school hours he hammers out plans. Predictions for where Jonathan might do after class, what Sock might need to do to stay out of sight, what kind of behavior he should be searching for while tailing the guy. Usually it all boils down to three things:

  1. Sneaking is as easy as just staying behind Jonathan at all times.
  2. He’s totally free to be loud--the music from Jonathan’s headphones is louder.
  3. There’s literally nothing weird about the teen, so Sock still has no idea what he’s supposed to be searching for.



Today’s not wildly different from the others--but they _do_ take a new detour.

Jonathan heads to a cafe a few blocks from the school instead of riding the bus, and Sock follows a couple hundred feet behind. Jonathan pulls open the door of a squat brick building with dirty windows and concert ads plastered to almost every square inch of the cork board fixed to the wall by the entrance. He goes inside. Sock waits a few minutes. Then he goes inside too.

The place is, uh. Homely. Or something. Sock’s not sure what to make of it, really. There are overstuffed couches and rickety wooden tables and people that look like they’re trying to be the protagonists of generic coffee shop romance novels, and way over the left, there’s Jonathan.

Sock orders a large hot chocolate, finds a chair on the opposite side of the room from Jonathan, puts down his backpack, settles in, and pretends to do some school work. Granted, school work for Sock isn’t really intensive considering it’s just him writing the occasional note in his notebook, and acting like he’s deep in thought the rest of the time, but y’know. A little while after he sets up camp the barista swings by to drop off his drink, and when Sock says ‘thanks’ he gets a level stare in response. But that doesn’t bother him much; he’s gotten worse treatment.

Meanwhile, Jonathan sits very, very still. Like, he is _super_ committed to his slouchy pose as he picks through actual schoolwork, his feet hooked onto the bottom rung of his wooden chair. He has a cup of what looks like tea, but Sock can’t tell what kind, so he writes “Drinks some kind of tea?” in his notes, and carries on with his subtle staring. He takes notes on Jonathan’s casual manner of sipping at his drink. He takes notes on how often Jonathan checks his phone. He takes notes on how many times Jonathan _sneezes_.

And after about an hour of playing secret agent, boy, does it get boring. His hot chocolate is long-gone, the cafe’s soundtrack has looped through twice, and he hasn’t been able to find anything worth noting to Mephistopheles for over twenty minutes, so naturally, Sock starts to feel the beginnings of an itch in the back of his head. Just an impulse to do something. Something with a capital “S,” actually. He really doesn’t like it when that itch shows up.

He grabs his pen and aggressively clicks it on, then does the first thing he can think of. He doodles what he sees, and he sees Jonathan.

‘It’s for future reference,’ he tells himself.

(It’s not for future reference.)

Jonathan’s got ridiculous hair--the kind you’d find in a 90’s cartoon, oddly enough--and Sock has to take a long, long time trying to nail it. Getting down the loops and straight lines is tougher than rocket science, but he figures it out eventually. Then he focuses a little more on the shape of Jonathan’s face, the bags under his eyes, the way he hunches so sharply it looks like it’s the only way his body can bend. And once he’s got that kind of down, the entire drawing just kind of happens. It’s suddenly in Sock’s notebook, sloppy and whole.

Sock takes a break from staring at Jonathan, and stares at it instead, feeling mildly proud. It’s got ink blots from where he held his pen down for too long, scribbles over the mistakes he couldn’t fix, and a load of sentimental value.

He makes a personal decision.

He tears it out of the notebook, and casually tucks it into his coat pocket.

Itch properly diminished for at least a little while, he finally gets back to work.

 

* * *

 

Thursday. Ugly o’clock in the morning. Mephistopheles is cussing in the backyard again.

It’s happened a few times since Sock showed up. It was a once-in-a-while kind of deal at first, but it’s been getting more frequent for some reason. Sock’s pretty sure he knows why his boss is pissed.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and drags himself off of the pull-out bed, taking a ratty blanket with him so that Mephistopheles won’t get snippy over him being topless outside again. He’s barefoot and the wooden flooring only sucks more of the warmth out of his feet, but he keeps his pace slow, a little lightheaded from being dragged into consciousness.

The door out back is mainly glass. There are smears and splatters on its outside that streak red moonlight onto the flooring, and behind them, Mephistopheles has his hands on his hips. He’s looking down at something in the grass and twigs and leaves.

Sock opens the door and shuffles through.

“It’s getting closer to the house now, huh.”

Mephistopheles doesn’t answer immediately. He prods the side of the dead deer with the tip of his polished shoe.

“This piece of work’s just _asking_ me to call animal services, I swear.”

Sock twists his lip in thought.

“I mean. Why not?”

Mephistopheles shrugs. “I have my reasons.”

And Sock sticks to his big principle. He doesn’t ask about it.

He shifts his blanket so it’s draped more like a poncho, covering his chest but leaving his arms free.

“I’ll drag it to the roadside and we can call whoever we need to to come pick it up tomorrow. We’ll tell them somebody must’ve hit it with a car.”

He looks at the deer a little closer, and realizes it’s practically been flayed and gutted.

“Uh,” he corrects himself. “We’ll tell them somebody must’ve hit it with a car, and then some scavengers got to it.”

Mephistopheles gives a slow nod.

“Sounds good.”

He does his sheepish finger-gun routine at Sock, then heads back inside, probably to make a few phone calls to people who _aren’t_ sanitation workers. Sock doesn’t know if he ever sleeps; he doesn’t seem like the type of guy that can ever just lay down. But that doesn’t matter too much to Sock right now. He has a deer to deal with.

Without further ado, Sock shuffles forward. He grabs the deer by its front legs, ignores the way the blood seeping between his fingers feels all warm and gooey and inviting, and puts his back into it.

 

* * *

 

Another week goes by.

Now that it’s been about two months since he left home and nothing particularly bad has happened to him, Sock finds himself tuning into the news every once in a while. Just collecting snippets of the big picture over in his home county.

Once or twice he hears words like “investigation” and “leads,” and those are the moments he feels the least real, like the time he’s spent away from his family is a half-dream he’s been humoring for hours by sleepwalking in circles around his room, and any second now he’s going to wake up in his own house covered in sweat. It does a good job at scrambling his insides into an ugly mess. But the feeling tends to pass pretty quickly considering all the work he’s been pouring himself into recently, and when his time isn’t eaten up with doing surveillance stuff, he’s busy trying to draw his own conclusions about Jonathan--it’s like a fun game at this point.

Thinking about it, Sock’s not sure what he would’ve done if he hadn’t had Mephistopheles as a backup plan.

...Probably something drastic.

Hmm.

Sock digs a nice grave for that thought, and he buries it.

 

* * *

 

Mephistopheles only gives time to a couple of Sock’s hundreds of entries, and they’re all so left-field that Sock can’t seem to connect the dots.

There’s the entry about Jonathan having a knack for watching bloodbath movies when not occupied with The Office. The one about his apparent disgust towards all things chocolate. And the most baseless one to Sock--how _itchy_ the teen tends to be.

Sock doesn’t ask Mephistopheles about it. He never will.

He _does_ put stars next to each notable entry, though.

He puts ‘ _Why does this matter??_ ’ next to a few of them too, and wonders if he’s ever going to get any closure.

Probably not. But he can hope.

 

* * *

 

The weather’s finally cold enough that Mephistopheles takes pity on Sock and buys him some winter clothes, and Sock immediately leans into his favorite fashion staple: layering. Layers on top of layers.

He wears a button up and a tie and his worn-down jean shorts and leggings and leg warmers and sneakers and a duster and his trademark hat to top it all off, and when he waltzes into the cafe six minutes behind Jonathan, Sock’s delighted to see that the barista only _barely_ suppresses his urge to flinch.

He orders a large green tea with a grin. The barista’s good at hiding it at a surface level, but Sock can smell his fear.

After that, he sits in his usual chair, kicking his feet back and preparing to do nothing except write about Jonathan reading a book for two hours.

The poor guy looks a little worse for wear today; Sock notes how his head bobs sporadically like he’s catching himself dozing off every few minutes or so. Must’ve pulled an all nighter. Sock’s glimpse into the world of public school doesn’t make it seem too pretty, if Jonathan’s weird sleeping habits are anything to go by. He only perks up when the barista swings by with a large cup of his mystery-flavored tea, and then Sock is sidetracked as he receives his own.

The barista refuses to make eye contact. Sock says ‘thank you’ anyways.

He’s halfway through the motions of taking a swig when he realizes something about his drink is off. It smells pepperminty.

He lowers it back down to the table, looks at the name on the cup, and is about to get up to ask about it when he realizes Jonathan’s already standing with his own cup in hand, talking to the barista behind the counter. They exchange a sentence or two. The barista points at Sock, which means that less than a second later, Jonathan’s looking at Sock too.

Sock’s heart rate goes up a few beats.

He gestures at his cup because it seems like it’s the appropriate thing to do, and Jonathan gives a half-nod and is slouching his way over, mouth a straight line.

“Sock, right? Have you already drank out of that?” he asks. His voice is a lot smoother than Sock anticipated.

“You’re uh. Jonathan, I’m guessing,” he says. Then, “Nope, I realized it was the wrong order before I took a sip.” Sock talks as casually as he can; he tries so hard to play it cool-- _so_ hard not say something stupid and revealing like, ‘Wow, I really wish I had heard you speak earlier because your voice is kinda-sorta-maybe weirdly attractive and this is bad, bad news to me on a very personal and professional level.’

He hands his cup over to Jonathan.

Jonathan hands his cup over to Sock.

“Peppermint tea, though?” Sock says, because he’s curious. “We’ve got a little bit of time before the holiday season, y’know.”

Jonathan shrugs. “It’s always in-season if you don’t like caffeinated drinks.”

Sock has to physically restrain himself from opening up his notebook and writing that down.

“Huh. To each their own, I guess,” he says instead.

An awkward beat.

“Well,” Jonathan says. “Thanks for not drinking my drink.”

He moves to walk back over to his spot but Sock’s brain finally catches up to read the whole situation for what it is, and he can suddenly see the words “GOLDEN” and “OPPORTUNITY” slapped on top, so he lets out a strangled “Wait!” and Jonathan stops.

“You’re in here a lot, right?” Sock asks.

“Right,” Jonathan echoes, expression still flat.

“Me too, and I see you around all the time but we’ve never really interacted so, like--” Sock can’t seem to stop tripping over his words, ugh-- “maybe we could talk a bit? Take the time to get to know each other better! Is it okay if I come and sit with you for a few minutes?”

For a few seconds, Sock is convinced that Jonathan is going to say no. Because all he gets back is eerie silence; the kind people usually hand out when they really, really don’t like an idea.

But then he gets a noncommittal ‘eh’ noise.

“It’s not like I can stop you if you want to,” Jonathan says. He points to the table where his bag is sitting, abandoned. “I’m over there.”

Sock crams all of his belongings into his bag and beams, trailing behind Jonathan and seating himself in the chair across from him at the table.

He looks Jonathan square in the eyes, and Jonathan looks back, all tired and subdued and _real_.

...Sock realizes he has no idea what to say. No good conversation starters, no quips, no one-liners that’d definitely hook Jonathan into this conversation. It’s crazy. He’s written page after page after page about this guy, describing his habits, his hobbies, his lifestyle, and yet he doesn’t know him at all.

Sock feels kind of off-kilter.

“So,” he says a little shakily. “Are you a student over at the high school?”

Jonathan gives him a confused look. “I’d thought you’d know that by now, considering you walk behind me while I’m headed here from school like, every single day now.”

Oh. _Ooooh, wow._ Sock’s been on Jonathan’s radar this whole time, and he doesn’t know how.

“Ahah,” Sock starts. Stops. “Just, uh.” Just what, Sock? “Just didn’t want to make any assumptions, I guess.”

“Well worry no more about assumptions,” Jonathan deadpans, then takes a quick sip of his tea. “I’m a senior.”

He doesn’t ask anything after that, but there’s definitely a margin of time Sock’s been given, and he needs to say something fast. So he blurts out a half-truth.

“I would be too, technically,” Socks chimes. “I’m homeschooled though, so. It’s not like I’m really getting to exercise my seniority over anybody.”

An understanding nod. “Sad.”

Sock nods back. “Very.”

“So does your mom give out your curriculum, or?”

“Nah, it’s my uncle,” Sock explains, proud that he and Mephistopheles had the foresight to sort out a story. “My parents are traveling for like, a year, and we all thought it’d be better if I settled in with a close relative for a bit.”

Jonathan raises a brow. “Funny,” he says. “My parents are out on extended vacation too.”

Sock already knows that.

“Oh!” he says, and he prays that he sounds surprised. “Where?”

“All across Europe, honestly. They jump from place to place.”

Dang. Sounds expensive.

“Are they big sight-seers, or something?”

Jonathan’s lip quirks to a weird spot; neither a frown, nor a smile. “Yeah, something along those lines,” he says, and the conversation just kind of launches off from there.

Jonathan mentions a sister in out-of-state college, a couple of hobbies Sock already had written in his notebook, and a few other tidbits of meaningless information that usually come from first meetings. Sock tries to reciprocate, except he does a lot more lying than truth-telling. Oh well.

They volley questions at each other back and forth, Jonathan giving honest answers and Sock lying, and for a guy that gives off such an apathetic vibe, Jonathan is surprisingly not-avoidant. He doesn’t really smile or laugh or make many hand gestures while he’s talking, but he’s sharp. He doesn’t trip over himself in the way Sock does.

All of a sudden it’s around 7 p.m., and they’ve both run out of words for the day.

“So,” Sock says.

“So,” Jonathan repeats.

“I should probably get back to my uncle before he starts thinking I got kidnapped, or something.”

Jonathan gives a hum of agreement. “Fair enough.”

Sock grabs his bag, stands up, and straightens his clothes out. He gives a hopeful glance at Jonathan.

“I’ll see you around? Maybe?”

“I guess we’ll see, dude.”

Sock thinks that might just be Jonathan for ‘Sure.’ He grins.

“See ya.”

Then he starts his trek home, and he has to remind himself that no, he _can’t_ skip through the front door. If he does that, Mephistopheles will have questions, and a lot of them--right now for some reason, Sock doesn’t feel like sharing this stroke of good luck immediately. So to compromise, he skip-walks from the cafe all the way to the mouth of his neighborhood.

And wow, does it feel great.

 

* * *

 

The next time he follows Jonathan to the cafe, he doesn’t let himself get antsy.

He orders his drink, beelines for Jonathan’s table, and settles in before Jonathan can protest, shooting off whatever sentence he’d been reciting in his head since this morning.

Then he does that the next time. And the next.

And eventually it’s less of a forced habit, and just a plain old ritual.

While coming in one time, Sock catches Jonathan place his bag in Sock’s usual chair, pause, then haul the bag to his side instead, and it’s such a simple gesture, but it makes him feel so warm. For the first time since September, he feels _warm_.

At first he wants to get used to it. Then he gets used to it. And on their umpteenth meeting where Sock can’t count how many times they’ve chatted on both hands anymore, he wonders how he ever let himself get so cold in the first place.

He doesn’t tell Mephistopheles about his talks with Jonathan, but Mephistopheles notices something’s up.

“Your notes are getting pretty detailed,” he says to Sock while they’re sitting at the kitchen counter, swapping information again.

Sock digs his nails into the fleshy part between his thumb and pointer finger, and he lies.

“I found a better spot for spying in the coffee shop, so uh. More opportunities to eavesdrop, I guess.”

Mephistopheles flips the page of Sock’s notebook. Raises an eyebrow at the number of entries on the page.

“Well, keep it up then, kid. You’re doing good.”

It’s a compliment, and compliments are not things Mephistopheles usually hands out freely unless he’s trying to butter someone up--Sock doesn’t feel like he needs any buttering up. So it’s genuine, and that throws him off.

“Thanks,” he says. And after that, he tells himself that he can’t screw this up now. He will not screw this up.

He thinks of Jonathan flashing a glimpse of a half-smile at him yesterday when he’d told him about the barista’s fear of Sock’s higher fashion, and his stomach does something stupid where it ever-so-slightly twists.

There’s no way in hell he’s going to let anything screw this up.

 

* * *

 

“County officials are on week nine of the search for the suspect now, with a potential lead with the sighting of an abandoned red Toyota Camry about fifteen miles out of town. It was found on the back roads--”

Sock turns off the radio. He does what he always does, and he doesn’t think about it.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think bears can hold grudges?” he asks Jonathan on a Thursday. He’s holding the local paper in his hands; it reads in big bold letters, “OUT OF TOWN HIKERS ATTACKED BY WILD ANIMAL; FOURTH INCIDENT IN TWO MONTHS.”

Jonathan chews the corner of a croissant slowly. Thoughtfully.

“What makes you say it’s a grudge? Or a bear?”

Sock makes an unassuming “I don’t know” noise. “Just. Bears are the biggest, scariest things around here. And maybe it hates this town. Or the people in the town. It’s doing a lot of angry bear stuff in not a lot of time.”

“Hmm,” Jonathan says helpfully. He leans back into his chair, taking a moment to prop his feet on the support beams of Sock’s chair. “I don’t think bears get grudges. They only really care about food, y’know? Unless you’re waving a handful of beef jerky in a bear’s face and it’s not a grizzly, you should be fine. Other animals, though…”

Sock sits up a little straighter. “Are there other animals worse than a bear around here?”

Jonathan taps his chin with the eraser part of his pencil, corner of his mouth tilted up ever-so-slightly. Tap, tap, tap. “I’ve heard about a cougar or two.”

“Guh,” Sock puts his face in his hands. “I hate cats.”

Jonathan snorts. “Just a theory.”

“A theory I really don’t like.”

Then something occurs to Sock.

“Do cougars eat deer?”

A slow blink.

“I don’t know. Why?”

And Sock’s hitting himself for not gapping this bridge earlier--it’s so obvious. “My uncle and I have been having a problem with all these deer carcasses showing up behind our house; like, they’re stripped down to skin and bone and mangled and _really_ gross.”

“Christ.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have you called animal control about it?”

Sock weakly laughs. “Nope. Uncle M’s against it, for some reason.”

Jonathan’s nose scrunches. “What reason?”

“The secret kind I don’t get to know, apparently.”

“Well that’s bull.”

Sock opens his mouth to agree. Closes it. Reminds himself that Mephistopheles works in mysterious ways. But for a second there, he really _did_ feel like an angry teen brought out of the loop by his uncle, and that’s a scary, scary realization.

“You should press him on it,” Jonathan’s saying in his trying-not-to-seem-involved-but-actually-very-involved tone, seemingly determined to get animal control called on whatever’s plaguing Sock’s backyard. “Keep asking about it until it happens.”

Sock definitely isn’t going to press Mephistopheles on it, but boy, is he tempted. He gives Jonathan a good, long stare, and wonders what the teen did to drag him into such a weird mentality.

Then he says “Yeah” before things get too weird, and the conversation moves on. But Sock’s thoughts don’t. Not for a long, long while.

 

* * *

 

Eleven p.m., and Sock’s back on the trail connecting Mephistopheles and Jonathan’s houses. It’s getting close to December now, and the cold is bad, but the wind is brutal. He’s wearing as many layers as he can manage while still being able to use his arms, and he walks stiffly because of it.

It’s a seven minute hike. Seven minutes of shivering and dreading climbing back up that tree, having to sit where the wind can reach him easily. Seven minutes of prepping himself to be crazy jealous of Jonathan, who gets to sit in a nice, warm house, none the wiser.

Sock breaks out of the underbrush, and into the Combs’ backyard. He hares over to the tree, is halfway up before he looks over his shoulder, and realizes the lights in the house are off. He gets back down.

 

_S: hey, mephistopheles?_

_S: it looks like jonathan went to bed already_

 

This isn’t the first time it’s happened; every once in a while Jonathan flicks off all the lights in the house way earlier than usual--before Sock even shows up, even. Usually it’s because he didn’t sleep well the night before.

 

_S: im freezing and not much is gonna happen tonight so is it alright if i come back?_

 

One, two, three, four, buzz.

 

_M: Do you mind double-checking that he’s in his bed for me?_

 

Mephistopheles is asking Sock to climb the tree. Sock gives himself permission to let out one dissatisfied huff, then he hauls himself up the branches, getting back into his regular spot and holding his binoculars to his face.

Sure enough, there’s a Jonathan-sized lump in the bed.

 

_S: yep, he’s in his bed and sound asleep_

 

The word bubble pops up for Mephistopheles. It stops. It pops back up.

 

_M: Fantastic. Now come on back before you freeze to death._

 

In the clear, Sock hurries back down the tree with a little less caution than he should have. His bag’s secure to his back and his hat is pulled so low it tickles the back of his neck and he’s raring to go, but as he does a little swivel in the direction of the path, he spots something weird.

The back door to Jonathan’s house is cracked open. Just a bit.

Sock’s never bumped into anybody out here; he doesn’t think anybody’ll sneak in overnight, even when given the opportunity. But now that he’s seen it, leaving it as-is feels wrong. Like if he leaves this door partially open and walks off into the night, he’s ignoring all the time and energy he’s spent trying to get close to Jonathan.

Sock looks to the left of the yard. Then the right. Like he’s crossing the street.

Then he hustles across the yard, reaches an arm out, quietly tugs the door closed, and sprints back to the safety of the path. Then he gets onto the path, and keeps running. He runs until he sees one of the landmarks--a weirdly-bent tree--and knows he’s halfway home. After that, he walks.

The wind is still blowing so the leaves are crackling and the trees are swaying, and everything about tonight is leaving Sock twitchy. But he did something _good_ , he shouldn’t be sweating this much.

Still, though.

The feeling he has the entire way back is distinct, and it sets off the alarm bells in Sock’s head that shout, ‘Someone is watching you!’

But he also has his trusty knife in his coat pocket, and a strong craving for some sweet, sweet peace of mind.

So for better or for worse, Sock ignores those alarm bells, and enjoys his walk home in self-made silence.

 

...He doesn't hear the thing growling far, far behind him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i've been wanting to try writing something for W2H for over a year, and of COURSE i managed to pump something out when the feed seems kind of dead, ahah. oh well. enjoy one of the longest chapters i've ever posted on this site ever, pffft. i'm aiming for this shebang to be kinda-sorta short rather than kinda-sorta long, so i think there'll be another 1 or 2 chapters more to this fic--can't give an exact estimate of when updates'll be, considering my schedule is whack. but i'll do my best to write when i can! i hope y'all are at least kind of digging it!
> 
> on a more plot-wise note, i tagged this with mystery, but i think a lot of the ~mysterious~ aspects are gonna be pretty straightforward, ahah. i've dropped a few already, and i'm sure you guys are gonna be quick to pick 'em up!
> 
> few more things in no particular order:  
> -the title for this fic is a lyric from daughter's [ "lifeforms"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TcR1ut6FKYc), but i might change it because it's not _exactly_ the vibe i was going for, whoops.  
>  -sorry for any typos! i don't have a beta but i'm not looking for one either considering my bad, bad writing schedule--this chapter is long and i tried to clean up what i could, and i'll continue to do so if i spot more errors! my brain likes skipping over words, so i'm sure they're in there. hmm...  
> -last but not least: thanks so much for reading! :^)


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